Water in the Dotombori Canal
by Kianang
Summary: Through each incarnation, Soi's soul is like polluted water in a canal, slowly flowing to the sea.


**Author's Notes: **Yet another reincarnation fic. This time, it's Soi. I'm procrastinating on my real work right now so bad... meh. And my writing style/voice is so different now than it was a year ago, so weird. Oh well.

**Water in the Dotombori Canal**

The hot rain hummed on the overhang as the shops closed, and the darker night came out to play. Soft mist rose off the puddles on the ground as the Dotombori Canal filled, its mud dimly reflecting the neon lights overhead. Slowly, the crowd of clear plastic umbrellas cleared, and a few lost tourists wandered by.

Min drew on her cigarette as she waited for her escort. The humidity made her tight skirt uncomfortably hot and close, and she could feel the moisture clinging to her face, threatening her foundation and expensive hair. She smiled slyly at a group of lost Americans as they skittered by, searching for the train station. She watched the rain fill the canal, flowing downstream and to freedom, despite the pollution, despite the dirt, despite the grime.

Mama didn't know where her money came from, and for this she was glad. She would call home once a week, huddling up against the green public telephone, cradling the receiver to her face like a treasure. "Yes, Mama," she would say softly, "Everything is fine, they treat me well. How much do you need this week? What would you like?"

She knew how it would break her to know.

Min loved to dream. She would imagine traveling down that canal that she watched fill with water every night. She would imagine flowing past the old castle, under bridges, to the sea. She would imagine drifting upriver, to places more ancient and secret, to the lake, to the mountains. Some days, she longed to dive in and drift to the sea as she waited for her escort, but her Mama's sad eyes always stopped her.

In some dreams, she traveled. And somewhere, in another place, another time, things were different. She would stand and watch a canal fill, a different canal, and cry as she waited for her clients. She would sob and fight to cover her legs, but it was only encouragement.

Her dream-Mama wasn't broken by the tears, or the knowledge. She supported her dream-Mama, but as a slave, sold to men. Once, she ran away, ran home, naively hoping her dream-Mama would welcome her with open arms.

The dream-Mama, looking very much like her real Mama, watched her dangerously, eyes filling with venom. She hid small children behind her skirt, she cradled an infant in her arms, kissing him like he was made of so much gold.

Her dream-self, twelve and small and terrified, watched the little ones, watched the baby, watched Mama, and cried. She cried as Mama screamed for her to get out, to never disrespect her house again, to leave.

"Who is she, Mama?" The little ones had voices like a kitten's purr.

"She is noone. She's a dirty woman, come to dirty us."

Min's twenty-year-old mind longed to scream, "Why do you make babies? To sell them?" She would watch the dream-Mama cradle and cuddle the infant, and kiss him like gold, like so much precious gold, like eight pounds of pure, precious gold.

And yet, she could never control her dream body. She simply lay on the ground, trembling after a vicious slap from her dream-Mama, crying, eyeliner and rouge dripping off her face with her tears.

Min drew deeply on her cigarette. Sometimes, her escort would visit her dreams, dark and vicious, cold, passionate, her savior, her nemesis.

When he finally arrived, her cigarette had burned down. "You're late. Any of the other girls would have run away by now."

He gave her a small flicker of an embarrassed smile. He was much softer than in her dreams. "You should stop that," he said, waving at the cigarette stub she was crushing under her heel. "Ueda doesn't like it when his women smoke."

"You smoke."

"I'm not one of his women," he said, taking her arm and leading her out into the rain, shielding her makeup and expensive dress with his umbrella.

"How many calls do I have tonight?"

"We'll see."

She stole a glance up at him, dressed in a suit despite the rain, bleached blonde hair clinging to his face from the humidity. He wasn't nearly as cold as in her dreams. The first time she made love to him, she marveled at the tattoos circling and entangling his torso, arms, and thighs. She traced the stylized faces and dragons with her fingers, impressed and terrified. When she did that, his face broke into a young, embarrassed smile.

In her dreams, he had no tattoos, only thick scars, and he never smiled. In her dreams, he would grunt impatiently when she inspected the thick scars on his chest, the map of his soul's deep suffering.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she longed to be loved by him. To have him cradle her face in his hands. His hands were so much softer than in her dreams. And yet, theirs was a strictly business relationship. They were both workers, her, the whore, and him, her escort. But sometimes, she would catch him off guard, and his eyes would dilate, overwhelmed, like a boy discovering love.

She knew some women who got legal visas through romance, but this was usually with customers. Through marriage.

Once, after having too much sake, she asked him, "Can you get me a visa?"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Do you have enough?" He thought she meant counterfeit...

She dangled drunkenly off him. "No... marriage."

"You're drunk."

"Luz got married... she has two kids in Shiga..."

"You're drunk."

She hiccupped pitifully. "No, I'm not. Marry me..."

Min knew it would never happen. But she still took guilty pleasure in snuggling up to his arm as he led her from club to club, listening to his heart, feeling his chest vibrate as he spoke. She still took pleasure in being close to him after making love, foolishly treasuring the closeness of what was merely a business transaction. He paid her rent, after all.

But, perhaps this was merely a dream. And someday, in some other time, some other place, she would remember it, and pity herself and the pain.

Someday, in some other time, some other place, they would be lovers. They would walk along a rain-swollen canal, arm in arm, treasuring the smell of the rain and the youngness of the night, innocent and sweet and very much in love.

Min imagined she was slowly progressing towards her perfect world, step by step, like the dirty, polluted water flowing into the Dotombori Canal. Someday, perhaps, she would reach the ocean, and swim with the fish in the purest, deepest parts of the ocean.


End file.
